The Little Rockingchair
by xxThisLoVeDiEs2Dayxx
Summary: A Scary Story that I made up. Doesn't really have to do with The Ring, but it's really good. It's about a house...a possesed house. Creepy! ONESHOT


(Rosalind's P.O.V.)

I remember the way Bella would rock back and forth in her old dusty rocking chair.

Creak. Creak.

It would creak against the wooden floor boards of the attic causing little flakes of wood to drift down and rest upon our heads.

Father would cuss.

"Goddamnit Bella! Get the hell outta that chair! You're knockin' the floor boards loose!"

Silence...silence...silence...

Creak, creak, creak.

Father looked to me and said in his frustrated tone of voice, "Rosalind, get your sister outta that damn chair before I blow a gasket!"

I immediately obeyed and ran into the long dark hallway of our two story house. I looked up at the thin white string that when pulled would release the small attic door. I tugged it until the door came down. I pulled out the ladder and started to climb.

Voices? The voice is Bella. But who could she be talking to?

I lifted my head up through the attic door just far enough for me to catch sight of my little sister sitting there Indian style, but not in the rocking chair...on the floor.

My eyes widened I looked at Bella just sitting. Staring at the chair which was slowly moving back and forth, back and forth.

The attic was always cold and and musty, but I could sense an irregular coldness in the atmosphere this time. A much stronger cold that almost pierced my flech like needles. I tingled a bit, but Bella never even flinched. Her stone-like solitary facial expression never twitched at all, She just stared. At that dusty, cobweb covered rocking chair.

"Don't call her that!" Bella shouted. But at who? I wondered. No one was in the room with her. She was yelling at the chair.

"No. She does believe! I just know that she does!" she screamed at the chair.

"Rosalind. Could she really be blind to the truth?" she asked aloud.

What! She was talking about me! I listened more closely. Had my baby sister Bella gone crazy?

I watched her intently as she held her hands over her ears.

"No! You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong!" she yelled and lashed out. She picked a nearbye glass suncatcher and hurled it at the chair. It shattered into a hundred pieces on the attic floor. I caught glimpse of a tear escaping from the corner of her eye; it slid down her cheek shining like a crystal as the shards of broken glass glimmered upon her sorrow. She began to shake and hypervenilate. I quickly rushed to her aid.

"Bella! Are you alright?" I asked in a concerned voice. I put my arms around her and embraced her with a hug. She pulled her inhaler from her back pocket.

"How long were you there? What did you see?" she asked me, her fear and sadness suddenly turning into anger and furiosity.

I hesitated a moment. I should tell her the truth. I've never lied to her before. "I saw everything."

She broke away from my hug and looked up at me with tear stained eyes. "You think I'm crazy too don't you!" she gave me one her famous looks. It was the look she always gave me when she seemed to be trying to stare into my soul, searching for the truth.

I didn't say anything. I just stood there dumbfounded.

She pushed me aside and ran out of the attic in a flash.

I was lost in thought for a moment. What just happened here? Who was she talking to and what were they saying about me? So many questions racing through my head at record speed. What was I to do?

(Bella's P.O.V.)

One...two...three...

I counted my breaths as I inhaled sharply. I brought my inhaler to my lips and took in the chalk-like aftertaste of the Albuterol. I trembled with mixed feelings of anger and misunderstanding.

We moved into this God forsaken house three years ago when our grandfather died. The people that owned the house were a middle aged couple and they had one 12 year old son, the same age I was at the time. Others had lived in and owned the house long before though. I can clearly remember the little boy pulling me aside and telling me the secrets of this house.

"Do you know what the real story behind these brick walls is?" he asked me with a serious expression held as if by glue to his face. His glare seared into my very being and it made me wonder.

I looked up at the house, shielding my eyes from the sun. It's features absolutely gorgeous, but it's mystery hidden. "No," I told him, "Please tell me."

"Ten years ago a family lived here. Their name: the Rosenbalms. The family consisted of a man, a woman, their 7 year old daughter and their 11 year old daughter, and their grandmother," I listened intently as he told me the story with drama and fascination, "The Rosenbalms had a little rocking chair. The man, or father if you like, made the chair with his own hands for his daughter's 7th birthday. When she first laid eyes on the little rocking chair she became disapointed. She whined to her parents that she was expecting a doll house. "But darling," her father whispered in her ear while kneeling down on one knee to come face to face with her, "This chair is magic!"   
"Magic?" she asked him in curiosity.  
"Yes, magic," he said, his eyes widening. "When you rock in this little chair, tilt your head back and dream of happy thoughts. Your little rocking chair will capture the memories and store them safely within the attic."

"But father," the small girl protested, "Why the attic?"

"Well my love, the attic is where I will put your little rocking chair. Your room is much too small and there are too many distractions elsewhere. You can think freely in the attic with no one to disturb you," he replied to her and offered a warm smile.

"Alright father. If you say so," she smiled back.

"Good. Now let's take your little rocking chair up to the attic and let you try it out!"

I snapped back to reality for a moment and took another puff from my inhaler, then I returned to my memories of the story the boy told me.

The attic was full of dust and cobwebs. It was dark and scary up there. The tiny girl did not like it at all.

"Father, I will be afraid up here on my own," she said with fear.

"Not to worry. I will bring your doll, Abbey, up to stay with you and I'll turn on this light here," he said pulling a string above his head which very dimly alluminated the attic.

He sat the chair in the center of the room and motioned for his daughter to sit.

She slowly began to rock back and forth, back and forth. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Her father left the attic quietly without disturbing her.

The girl soon found herself in a whirlwind of thoughts, but not good ones like Father had said, they were evil ones. Filled with hatred and gore. The girl was frightened but the thoughts remained there in her mind as clear as day. She saw blood on wooden floors and a knife in a man's hand. She saw a tiny body lying on the ground in pain and anguish, her face stained with tears as the man repeatedly stabbed her again and again and again! Until she lie motionless on the floor in a pool of blood.

As the boy told me this story I grew more interested. "Well? What happened after that?" I grew impatient. I wanted to hear the end of it.

The boy looked at me and grinned, "Alright, I'll tell you."

(Bella's P.O.V.)

My mind came to reality once more and I became cold. My skin chilled to the bone with freezing air entering my lungs. I could see my breath come out as steam in the air. She must be here with now. I fear for Rosalind's life. I started to recall my story once more.

The boy looked at me and grinned, "Alright, I'll tell you."

The little girl was rocking back and forth in her rocking chair; the visions of blood and gore still fresh inside her mind. She opened her eyes and heard the old grandfather clock in the attic chime. 12:00 midnight. She felt herself begin to get very sleepy, so she attempted to rise and go to bedroom.

But she couldn't.

Her legs and arms felt like cinderblocks. They were heavy and numb. Her head fell back and the frightening scene she just witnessed in her mind came back. This time she could just barely make out the girl lying dead on the floor.

It was her!

The girl tried her best to get out of the chair and run her mother but her body remained stiff as a board. She tried to scream. Her voice caught in her throat.

Voices...

Get out!

Voices were all around her now and everthing was spinning. Who's voice was it? She did not recognize it.

Run! You are not safe here!

The tiny girl's body was frail and limp. Hot tears trickled down her cheeks. Were the voices a warning?

Downstairs in the living room the girl's father kissed his wife goodnight as she went bed.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked him.

"No, I think I'll sit up for a while. I have insomnia tonight," he smiled at her.

She left without another word.

The man waited until his wife was completely out of sight then rose from his chair and went into his eldest daughter's room.

He slowly opened the door and poked his head inside.

"Psst. Rachael. Are you awake," he quietly whispered.

"Yes daddy," she replied, tuning on her lamp.

"Well? Are you ready?" he smirked and raised his eyebrows.

"I sure am," she grinned and got out of bed.

The two them went into the kitchen. The man grabbed a butcher knife from the countertop and they headed towards the attic.

Up in the attic the little girl still could not move or speak. Her body was completely dead and useless to her now. She just sat in the little rocking chair suffering from the visions of herself lying dead.

She heard something. Like the attic door being opened. She was so greatful...at least for the moment.

"Amy. Are you alright?" she heard her sister's voice say.

"Rachael! Help me! Get me out of this chair," the little Amy pleaded.

"I'm afraid I can't do that sister dear," she said in return.

"B-b-but. Why?", Amy stammered.

"Because you can't go back downstairs. Ever," she said and grabbed Amy by her hair, dragging her down to the floor and holding her down.

Amy opened her eyes wide and tried to scream but her voice was to hoarse. She looked up and saw her father standing over her with a knife in hand. She mouthed the words "help me". He simply shook his head. 

The next thing she knew she saw the glare of the blade coming towards her at full speed. She felt it slam into her chest. The pain was agonizing. Her world went black and the last she saw was her father with what seemed for a moment to be blood red eyes staring back at her.

In her mind the last words that her conscience spoke was, "They were trying to warn you. Why didn't you listen?"

(Bella's P.O.V.)

That awful story petrified me. I had doubts of whether or not the story was true at first but now I was for sure. Every word of it was true. Down to the last excrusiating detail. I knew because she was trying to warn me. The girl who died under the knife of her own father and sister was trying to warn me. She said that I would be next. The exact same rocking chair that her father had made her for her birthday still resided in our attic. I went there often to speak with the little girl, Amy. She looked the same way she did when they killed her. 

Wearing a ruffled blue dress, her silky blonde hair held back in pigtails, and the stab wound still freshly visible on her chest. The blood seeped out like it was just recently inflicted. Her pretty dress no longer clean and elegant, but blood stained torn. She never ever smiled and her eyes were always red from the tears she had shed.

Only I could see her. She said she could not rest in peace until I took heed of her warning and fled far alway from this place. But where would I go?

What could have possessed her father and sister to do such a thing? And why my own father and sister repeat the same process? It couldn't be. But was this all not just as it had hapened ten years ago? When the voices in the attic tried to warn Amy just as Amy was trying to warn me? I needed full proof before I left my home and ventured off into some unknown wilderness.

(Rosalind's P.O.V.)

Bella had been in her room for quite a while. I grew angry at the very thought of what Amy might have said to her. I knew the story before that boy ever even told it to Bella. It was written on the walls, on the floors, and in the attic. It was everywhere. I had that sort of pychic apparition where I knew things but could not see them like Bella could. Ten years ago I could sense the blood and sadness in this house. I could smell it. The smell of dirty water and the taste of aluminum foil or copper. It was all around and I knew all too well. If we stayed here, I knew that my own father and I would kill Bella just the way Amy was killed by her own sister and father. I didn't want that to happen. But if we stayed here then could not be stopped. The family was still here. All of them. Especially Amy. They did not feel it right for any family to live happily in this house after what happened to them.

The Devil is here. He possessed those people and he will possess us. I knew this in my heart. I didn't know how I knew. It was just...there.

We have to get out. If not our parents then Bella and I. I won't kill my own sister. And surely mother and father will think us crazy if we tell them the whole story. They won't listen. This evil must be put to an end so that the family who suffered this terrible fate can be put to rest.

I ran to my sister's room at full speed and practically knocked down the door.

"Bella! We have to get out!" I yelled at her and grabbed her arm. I tried to drag her but she wouldn't budge.

"What are you waiting for?" I screamed. She looked at me. I could feel hate growing and burning inside of her. She looked at me with gray eyes. Her expression was cold.

"No. You're going to kill me," she said. Her eyes never leaving mine.

"Amy told you that didn't she? Well I'm not! Not as long as we get out of here before midnight!" I was getting rather impatient. It was now 11:30 at night. I tugged her arm once more and this time she drew a dagger from bemeath her nightgown and slashed my hand.

I immediately let go and cradled my hand as I watched blood trickle down my fingers. I started to cry.

Would I really kill my own sister?


End file.
